


Ark of the Covenant

by HarmoniaChimera



Category: Original Work
Genre: Animals, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Incest, Multi, POV Animal, Parent/Child Incest, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-19 21:35:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17009643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarmoniaChimera/pseuds/HarmoniaChimera
Summary: I just wanted to write a story in which a bull would be forced to rape his own daughters in order to determine if he is passing a genetic disease...





	Ark of the Covenant

**Author's Note:**

> **Friendly reminder:** I am a vet by trade.  
>  **Foreword:** I originally wrote this in 2012. Why? Because I had a difficult childhood exam session. I translated it about a year ago. Why? Because I wanted to see if I could. And I’m putting it up now… Why?  
> …Because I lost a bet.
> 
> The following story is sponsored by a crazy all-nighter, a skin-stripped bovine dick, and a genetics question of ‘A carrier bull rapes his carrier daughters. What part of the offspring will be dead?’.
> 
>  **Rating:** U for unfortunate  
>  **Warnings:** animal sex, incest, orgy?, human voyeurism??, detailed visual (and a mite technical) descriptions

_Motto: “Oh, hey, da… WHOA, dad!”_

 

Actually, I’ve never been a good father. I mean when it comes to  _raising_  children. Because I  _am_ the undisputed champion of making myself a parent… repeatedly.

“This is our best stud,” humans would say, pointing at me from far away, and I’d walk proudly around the meadow, showing off my strong muscles and tensing probe. All breeders around wanting to have my kids… in their cowsheds, of course. I’d usually be placed in a secluded clearing and brought some nice barrel with her horns still uncut, and then I’d just happily jump onto her back. Ah, those were the good times.

And now those small, bipedal creatures say I’m sick and it has something to do with my… profession. I don’t know where they got that idea from, because I feel amazing, maybe even better than usual, but they stubbornly seem not to notice that.

And they take me on the rope, as always, so I go politely, but this time they take me to another place, into a field maybe twice as big as my usual meadow. I think something was growing here not so long ago ‘cause I can still smell the bitter scent of corn. I wait a whole awful amount of time, and I start wondering: what’s going on, what are they doing? I can’t possibly imagine a bessy that wouldn’t want to spend a while alone with me on a clearing–even the most timid heifers always come to be without a moment of thought to see what I have for them up my–-cough, cough-–sleeve.

Suddenly a cloud appears in the horizon and a moment later, I can make out a bunch of dark shapes in it. Crap, I can’t help but think, are they chasing a herd of horses at me?! Am I that sick? Wouldn’t it be much easier to just shoot me in the head, now trampling is in fashion?

But I’m not going down without a fight, oh no. If they have such ideas, they’re gonna lose at least half of that herd before I die. Just let me turn my horns toward them and…

…oh.

Several yards from me, in a perfect row, the feeders are placing my herd daughters, one by one. And not just any way, but from the oldest to the youngest, and in the pair of twins they put the prettier one closer to the beginning. I’m so engrossed trying to figure out what that’s all about, that it takes me a while to notice they’re all standing with their hind quarters toward me. I guess it starts dawning on me…

“Well, you old fella, don’t tell me you can’t do it!” the oldest of feeders shouts, slapping my rump. I glower at him angrily, but he doesn’t even budge, he just stares at me, waiting. Damn, are they serious?

For all intents and purposes, though, does it really make a difference? It won’t be me fighting later with the buyers, trying to sell infertile, haggard kids. What do I care those poor humans have no idea what they’re doing? All I care about are rhythmical, circular movements of my jaw and rhythmical, sliding movements of my hips…

…which very soon I perform joyfully, stuck to the arched back of the first daughter of mine. She’s still young and supple, although already after three calvings and that, unfortunately, I can feel very well… Or rather, I don’t. She doesn’t do me any good and not that she even tries at all, but when at some point she lowers her head, I hope she’ll finally start doing something… Pipedreams; the head comes back to me full of grass and that’s it. She gets a jab in the hip for goodbye. That’s no way to treat your father. I’ll have to tell her mother to teach her some respect. As long as I can remember which one her mother is…

At this point I decide not to follow my feeders’ plans and I jump to the end of the line. The youngest daughter of my loin twitches nervously when I hook my sternum to her back, but stands tall. Not worrying about the hymen of my heifer, I poke around with my bullhood until I finally thrust it into her all the way to the sigmoidal flexure, mooing deeply into the clouds. I can feel my prominent testicles pounding against her still unripened udder, just waiting for the first calf to let it begin with what it was made for: lactating.

As soon as I pull back, she closes after me like the cursed gates of Sesam, but despite the difficulties I steadily make my way deeper and deeper. My partner moos terribly, thrashing her head around, until the others look at her surprised. And I do, too. Okay, I am a bit… erected, but come on. “Kiddo, shut your mouth,” I want to tell her, “I know what I’m doing!”, but I refrain myself, knowing she’d just get scared even more.

“Now…” I puff softly and she seems to settle down a bit. At least until I continue: “Now, now, now, now, argh, now!”

Another moo marks the moment when my little bulls hurry to look for her Ark of the Covenant.


End file.
